


Stop The World 'Cause I Wanna

by daynight



Series: Telegraph Avenue [1]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M, Record store au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 16:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3296906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daynight/pseuds/daynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An elusive rare EP by a mysterious underground band is all David Webster wants. </p><p>The only thing the guy who works at the record store seems to be giving him is trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop The World 'Cause I Wanna

**Author's Note:**

> Don't own characters, no disrespect to the real people this is purely based on fictional depictions shown in TV series.

 

Telegraph Avenue was busy, bustling with tie-dyed tourists and exuberant students scrawling the sidewalk with brightly coloured chalk. The vintage clothes shops and whole-food restaurants spilled out into the gaze of the strong sun, no longer confined to their storefronts.  It would be a nice place to wander aimlessly, to think and let his imagination drift but David Webster couldn’t afford to indulge. He was on a mission.

He had managed to save this time as a present to himself after attending an intriguing seminar on sharks at Monterey Aquarium. He had secured a place to stay with an old prep school friend, Henry Jones, who was studying at the prestigious local University.  David was only going to be in Berkeley for three days and there was something he just had to do before he returned back to Harvard and the East Coast. Something that he felt was pretty imperative in ensuring a successful trip to California.

David Webster was a man of a few specific niche interests. One was literature, which he studied at Harvard. Another was marine biology, with a main focus on sharks. The third was independent alternative rock music. He was cultivating quite a collection of rare vinyl records and there was one particular record, so uncommon that it had attained an almost mythic quality, which continued to evade him. The only clue he had in his quest to find it was Nix Records, the rumoured place of its conception. He felt a sense of anticipation as he finally the address and gazed up at the store.

Nix Records was pretty run down, its dark red paint peeling and shabby. Not really befitting of an underground music legend. The door was quite resolutely shut, unwelcoming, but the store appeared to be open. Breathing in sharply, David entered the shop.

 

* * *

 

A bell dinged upon his arrival, old fashioned and attached to the door. The guy behind the counter didn’t even look up, just flicked another page of the comic book that was splayed out in front of him over, a wave of his hair falling onto his forehead. He was a jumble of thin limbs in a rolled up grey t-shirt and lazily arranged over the counter, his head slightly bobbing to the loud music emanating from the speakers. Kind of cute. David sent an awkward smile in his direction, and then proceeded to browse the small, very well stocked record store.

He couldn’t find it. Furrowing his brow, David approached the counter. He stood unnoticed (or ignored) for a couple minutes as the guy leisurely flipped through another page of his comic until clearing his throat loudly. The guy at the counter very slowly dragged his eyes up from the counter to stare at David, eyebrows raised.

“What?”

A little taken aback by his rudeness, David opened his mouth to speak.

“Hi. I’m here from out of town and I was told I could find a record here?” The guy snorted derisively and went back to his comic.

“Well, yeah. It is a record store.” He absently gestured towards the records with his skinny arm. David frowned. He chided himself, not cute at all.

“Actually, I’m looking for a specific one. Not that old, but it only exists on Vinyl? It’s called ‘Currahee’ by ‘Easy Company Troopers’, it came out in about 2006?”

The guys hands stilled on his comic. He let the pages flutter closed then snapped his gaze to David, as if he was finally paying attention to him.

“What did you say?” There was an air of shocked vehemence in his words.

“Ah, it’s called ‘Currahee’ by ‘Easy Company Troopers’.” The guy appeared to wince. “Do you know it?”

“No. Yeah. Yeah I know it. Why the fuck do you want that?” He practically spat, lip curled. The cursing was a little unexpected but David persevered.

“Well, I’m a big fan of the band.” A mocking smirk.

“Are you really?” Sarcasm was dripping out of his lopsided mouth.

“Yeah, I’ve listened to all their single releases like ‘Bastogne’, ‘The Breaking Point’ and ‘101st’. All the stuff that used to be on their Myspace that I managed to rip before it was deleted. Currahee was their first and last EP, very limited release, there are only about 100 left and they’re selling for over $200 dollars on Ebay. I thought that, since Nix Records also produced it, you might have it?”

“Wow.” The grin the guy was wearing reminded David of one of the sharks he studied. “Very impressive. Someone’s been brushing up on their Wikipedia skills.” His bad attitude was becoming increasingly aggravating. Luckily, David knew how to control his temper. He launched into defence mode, keeping his tone casual and light.

“I didn’t get that from Wikipedia, I did my research.” If there’s one thing David Webster is proud of, it’s his research. Meticulous, so his professors reviewed him. “I’ve liked this band for a long time, okay?”

“Why?”

“Huh?”

“Why do you like them? They’re fucking terrible?” David bristled. This band actually meant a lot to him, had gotten him through the more difficult patches in his late teenage years with their aggressive tempo and angry, howling lyrics. He used to browse their MySpace and stare obsessively at the one picture of them he could find, a low quality digital photo of a four guys outside a San Fransisco night club, ironically clad in old WWII dress uniforms and clutching bottles of beer. They looked achingly cool with long hair and ray-bans, encapsulating the devil-may-care attitude that David had so admired in their music. When he was a teenager he had, quite embarrassingly, printed out the picture and stuck it on the inside of his locker.

“The song writing, the bass lines, everything. They’re definitely not terrible. A little unlistenable sometimes but not terrible.” The guy cocked his eyebrow and noticeably bit his tongue on yet another sarcastic laugh. David began to realise that he was dealing with a total asshole.

“What’s your name?” An abrupt question.

“David Webster, why?”  He almost felt like incredulous laughter. He wasn’t used to this, the third degree just for trying to buy a record. The guy ignored his question, of course, and held up three skinny fingers, inches away from David’s face.

“Well, Webster, three things. Firstly I think you need to get some fucking taste, okay? Stop listening to shitty bands just ‘cuz you want to seem cool and individual in front of your preppy friends.” He flicked his first finger down. “Secondly, no one has this record. Nobody. Just buy it on eBay with all the other suckers. “ Third finger. “Thirdly, you need to get the fuck out cuz I’m closing up to have a smoke.” He started to move from behind the counter, already retrieving a pack of lucky strikes from his back pocket and shoving one into his mouth. David didn’t move, reeling from the casual machine-gun insult that cut just a little too close to the bone. The guy, who was actually pretty short once he’d stepped around the counter, widened his eyes at him, mouthing ‘move’ around his cigarette.

David had never encountered a ruder salesperson in his life. He began to walk out the shop, sort of dazed. The door slammed behind him and the guy followed shortly after, flipping the sign to ‘Closed’ and locking the door despite the confused people who appeared to be intending to enter. He lit his cigarette and took a long drag, not even bothering to further acknowledge David’s existence. Pissed off at this roadblock, David began to stalk back down the street, certain that the guys mocking gaze was now burning holes into his back.

Was it even worth this shit? Should he give up? No, he reasoned, this was the best chance, maybe the only chance of finding that record. One hadn’t appeared on eBay for about a year, the supply must have all gone to other collectors, and he had no other leads. Sighing deeply, he stopped in his tracks and turned back around with weary reluctance.

“Hey, are you open tomorrow?” The guy smirked and flicked his cigarette.

“Yeah, but I sure as fuck ‘aint gonna be here.”

Excellent. Perfect. Better than perfect if that little shit was out of the way. David resolved to return tomorrow to resume his quest.

 

* * *

 

The next day, he returned to the shop with a sunny disposition. He had told Henry all about the super rude shop guy the day before, ranting about his insolence until his Henry told him he needed to not get so het up and ‘just get over it, man.’ Thank god he didn’t have to endure him now; hopefully the other worker would be a lot more helpful and obliging. He opened the door to the shop wearing a big, friendly smile to greet his potential saviour.

It promptly fell when he heard the familiar snicker behind the counter.

“Yo Web.” David was both surprised that he remembered his name and uncomfortable with this level of familiarity from someone he was really beginning to despise. Probably his aim. “My day off was fuckin’ cancelled. Other guy has a friend over from Philly. Happy to see me?”

David decided to cut the shit.

“Did you manage to find that record?” The guy rolled his eyes.

“No, seeing as no one has it, especially not us. Get something else. Something good, like…” He rifled around behind him and picked up ‘The Animals’ self titled first album, released 1964. “This. Buy this. Then fuck off ‘cuz I need a smoke.”

“I already have this.” The guy sent him another patented smirk.

“So your taste isn’t completely beyond savin’.”

“That almost sounds like a compliment.” The guys face dropped, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t get fuckin’ used to it.”Growled out through gritted teeth.

A couple of teenaged customers who had been milling around the shop attempted to line up at the counter, holding copies of ‘Ramones’ and ‘The Queen Is Dead’ expectantly. The guy rolled his eyes again and levelled them with his unrelenting glare. “Hey, fuck off. Can’t you see I’m talking here?”

At least his terrible manners weren’t only reserved for David. The stores declining status as a reputable record shop was beginning to make sense. Perhaps it could be blamed on its frankly shocking customer service. Who the fuck would hire this guy? He was rude, constantly taking breaks and appeared to show very little concern for his job. Ignoring the muttered complaints of the kids as he watched them leave, the aforementioned awful salesman turned back to David, although not really talking for his benefit, dark brown eyes wandering around the shop. “Eric Burden’s voice is the shit, man. One of the better versions of ‘House of The Rising Sun’, though I like Lead Belly’s best.”

So he did know about music. David supposed it was a pre-requisite to work in a record store. He was probably a huge music snob who went to see all the newest, most unknown bands and looked down on people who only experienced them through the internet and hear-say. The guys musing ended with a firm blink and he directed a cigarette to his mouth once again.

“Alright, get out of here. I’m closing up.”

“Seriously? So you’re not even gonna try to help me?”

“Nope.” He flashed him a mean grin.

David was never going to get his hands on that record.

 

* * *

 

 

He lamented once again his pain and annoyance to Henry as they stepped out for the night to check out the local bars. He had spent the afternoon after he left Nix Records filled with simmering irritation and proceeded to indignantly scour music forums on his macbook air until late eveniing. As he had previously ascertained in his research, Nix Records definitely had a stockpile of the record. The guy who owned the store, Lewis Nixon, a legend for his drunken parties, had even produced it. The fact was pretty much confirmed. That meant that not only was he very unpleasant, the guy was a liar. A liar and a complete prick who was keeping ‘Carrahee’ away from David for some unknown, petty reason. Maybe he didn’t think he was cool enough, didn’t have enough musical credibility to deserve it or something. Maybe he’d just taken a disliking to him and had deigned to make his life miserable for fun.

As they entered the crowded bar, David decided he was cursed. In the corner, slumped over a beer and engaged in an intense conversation with the bartender, was his record shop nemesis.

“Fuck!” He breathed to Henry, removing his oversized denim jacket.

“What?”

“It’s the record shop guy!” He motioned over to the corner of the room, trying to subtle.

“The little guy?” Henry wrinkled his nose.

“Yeah. Look at him, what a dick. God.” The guy was wearing an obnoxiously ratty black tee shirt and leaning back on his stool with a cruel laugh on his face, looking every bit the asshole that David knew him to be. To be honest, he was surprised he was getting served. David had assumed he was about 19 or 20; he had a very youthful air about him and a lot of teenage-esque insolence.

“Just leave it, man. Ignore him. Let’s get a drink.”

David settled on a stool far away from the corner but couldn’t help looking at him out of the corner of his eye. He cut quite an enigmatic figure, twisted mouth and mussed dark hair.

“What’ll it be?” The unexpectedly deep Cajun accent of the bartender snapped David out of his reverie.

“Two Brooklyns, thanks.”

“Comin’ right up.” The barman poured them two beers, wiping his hands on his white t-shirt with a concentrated frown.

“Hey, do you know that guy?” David inclined his head towards the record shop dick, careful not to look his way.

“Wha’, Liebgott? He’s a regular.”

“Huh. Okay, thanks.” The barman kind of shrugged and went back to his work.

A couple of rounds down, David felt a hand roughly slap him on the back.

“Fancy seeing you here, Webster. Thought you would have gone back to wherever you came from by now.” He’d been spotted. Record shop guy, Liebgott, was crowding over him, way too close for comfort and treating him with threatening familiarity. From the way his eyes were slightly glazed, he had been hitting the whiskey pretty hard. “Where are you from anyway?” Clenching his jaw, David shifted away from him.

“New York but I live in Cambridge, Massachusetts.” His reply was sharp, cut with annoyance. Liebgott did not seem to notice.

“No shit, near like Harvard or somethin’?”

“At Harvard.” Liebgott looked at him for a long second then burst into a nasty uproarious laugh.

“Seriously? Jesus Christ.”

“You got an issue with that?” David was glaring. He really didn’t need this guy to critique his entire life. He’d already torn apart his taste in music.

“No, no, fuck, don’t get your panties in a twist, fancy boy.” That did it.

“What the fuck is your problem?” David was standing up now, nudging at Liebgott’s shoulder. Henry was eyeing them nervously.

“Huh?” The bastard was fucking laughing in his face.

“I said, what the fuck is your problem? First you refuse to sell me a record I know you have; now you make fun of me?”

“Those records aren’t for fucking sale man, get over it.” He was squaring up now and was actually pretty fucking scary despite being far slighter than David, his voice low and menacing.

“So you admit that you do have them?”

“Maybe I fucking do. Maybe I don’t wanna sell them to some Ivy League asshole. Maybe go fuck yourself.” With that last point he harshly pushed David in the shoulders, causing him to stumble backwards. Body singing with anger beyond reason, he pushed back, catching Liebgott off guard and off balance. “What the…” An animalistic bearing of teeth, a fist reeling back and in a flash of red, it caught David viciously on the underside of his jaw. For a thin guy he had one hell of a left hook, David was propelled backwards into the bar stools and instantly put his hand up to his throbbing face. Despite having the physical advantage, David wasn’t much used to brawling in bars but Liebgott, staring wildly at him and breathing heavily, certainly was. David scrambled against the bar for purchase and began advancing towards Liebgott, throwing concern to the wind, but was halted by a strong hold on the back of his t-shirt.

“What the hell are you doin’?” The barman’s pale face was contorted with fury. “Two grown adults…you should be ashamed of yo’self.” He let go of the back of his shirt and turned his livid glare to Liebgott. “And you. What have I told you about fightin’ in here?”

Liebgott’s head was turned away, shoulders slumped.

“Sorry, Doc” he muttered. Still staring at the wall, he removed a cigarette from his pocket and placed it in his mouth. He turned back and took one last look at David, lip twisted upwards in disdain, then stalked out of the door, people shuffling out to make way for his swaggering figure.

“We should leave.” Remarked Henry.

“Yeah.” Replied David, eyes still stuck to the place where Liebgott had been standing.

 

* * *

  

His last day in Berkeley before he caught the plane back to the East Coast, David found himself at Nix Records again. He was unsure how he ended up there. Half of him just wanted to spit in Liebgott’s face, the other half wanted to apologise. Sucking in air, he steeled himself and pushed open the door.

“Hey! Welcome to Nix Records!“ behind the counter was not the scowling, glowering Liebgott but a brightly smiling kid with auburn hair tapping his fingers to the beat of the music.  There were a lot more people in the store. Perhaps word had gotten round that it was Liebgott’s day off. David approached the counter as the guy jiggled around, organising record sleeves.

“Hi. Is…is Liebgott around?” The kid grinned.

“Nah, Joe’s taken the day off. Think he’s probably hung-over.” The guy shook his head fondly. He had a very broad South Philadelphia accent. “Why, you a buddy of his?”

“Uh. Not really.” This kid was definitely a far better salesperson than Liebgott. He was actually friendly and seemed like he might even be willing to help. David decided to try his luck one more time. It couldn’t hurt, unlike the bruise that was forming under his jaw. “Hey, you don’t happen to have a record here, do you? ‘Currahee’ by ‘Easy Company Troopers’”

The kid’s eyes lit up with excitement.

“What, Joe’s old band? Oh man, I dunno. We might have a couple? I can check.”  David almost choked.

“What did you say?”

“We might have a couple?”

“No, before that.”

“Joe’s old band?” What. The. Fuck.

“Liebgott was in ‘Easy Company Troopers’?” David was floored.

“He wasn’t just in it man, he was the bass guitarist and lead singer! I think he wrote all the songs as well.” All those loud, noisy songs that David had adored, had listened to constantly. Written by Liebgott. The same Joe Liebgott who had unceremoniously punched him in the face not one night ago. That voice that he used to play on repeat and was always a little bit in love with – how had he not recognised it? He cast his reeling mind back to the one picture he had found of the band; the lead singer’s long hair had been wavy and brown, hadn’t it? Jesus Christ.

"To be honest," continued the cheery kid "I don't think he really tells anyone about it. He was only like, 18 or somethin'.  I only know because Doc told me." 

The surly bartender at The Battalion. ‘ECT ‘probably played there in an early era of the band. Also, that information would unexpectedly place Liebgott at around 27, a fair few of years older than David. 

Checking his watch, David realised he didn't have much time.  

"Where does he live?" 

"What, Eugene? I dunno if I should tell ya, he's probably sleeping and he hates to get woken up in the daytime!"

"No, Liebgott." 

"Ah, right. Nixon let's him live above the shop. He's always late opening though, ha ha!"

That made sense. Liebgott probably only had his job because of his connection to Nix Records as he was otherwise completely terrible at it. 

"Can I go up there?" The ginger kid swept his eyes over him in assessment, seemed to find him satisfactory, and with a pleasant smile showed him to the back stairs, rambling that Liebgott was always hilarious when surprised, but not to let him throw too much shit around as it disturbs the customers. 

David thanked him and walked up the stairs to a small landing and a locked green door. Wondering what the hell he was doing for a crazy second, he rapped neatly three times. 

"Hey, are you in there?" No answer. He tried again. 

"Liebgott? It's Da- I mean it's Webster. That super annoying Harvard asshole who kept pestering you for that record, remember?"

Murmured swearing and crashing sounded from behind the door, followed by heavy footsteps. The door opened a crack and a bleary but still glaring Liebgott peeked out, his hair messy and eyes crackled red. 

"How the fuck did you get up here?" He scrubbed a hand through his hair and answered his own question with a sigh. "Fucking Babe. Gonna kill him." Despite his slightly disheveled appearance, David found himself entranced. This guy had been his hero for a long time, and here he was, in all his cocky, abrasive glory. His awed gaze appeared to confuse Liebgott, who frowned and seemed to assume David was trying to disconcert him. 

"Look, I'm sorry I hit you. Your lily ass probably ain't used to rough housing. I get a little antsy when I drink." 

"A little." David gingerly touched his bruise and Liebgott sneered. 

"Did you come up here to complain? I don't have time for this shit." 

David wedged his foot in the door as Liebgott began to close it.  

"No! Wait! I heard about 'Easy Company Troopers'" Liebgott threw his head back in agony. 

"Fucking Babe! Again!" He dragged a thin hand down his face, resigned. "I guess you're gonna be wanting that record then." His tone rang with defeat, leveling his eyes at David expectantly.  

That he couldn't take.  

"I don't want it anymore."  

He found himself wanting something else instead, something even more important.

Liebgott was looking angrier than David had ever seen him, including the time he slammed his fist into his jaw.

 “Oh, so you don’t want it now that you’ve met me? Fucking typical…don’t match up to your expectations huh? I’ve ruined your favourite little band for you now, so fucking sorry. Guess you never should meet your idols, huh. ” He punctuated his rant with a sarcastic, malicious laugh.

 David was confused. That wasn’t what he meant. Not at all.

 “No! No, that’s not it. The band always meant so much to me and the singer, well. You’re…you’re better than I ever expected. “

Feeling his words were not enough to explain his sincerity and compelled by some sort of strange, impetuous force David grabbed Liebgott by his skinny shoulders, gathering him up, and kissed him squarely on the mouth. 

“That’s worth more than the record.” He stuttered, feeling his burst of confidence fade fast.

He wasn't sure why he'd done it. Part of it had to do with his enduring love for that voice and those lyrics. Part of it had to do with the fact that despite his aggression, his sneers and smirks, Liebgott was still, undeniably,attractive.  Part of it was probably that this trip to California and putting up with this asshole had driven him fucking crazy.

David fully expected to receive another punch in the face, steeling himself with the comfort that at least he knew what it felt like already. Instead, to his great surprise, Liebgott kissed back.

 

* * *

 

A couple of months later, close to graduation, David received a very small but heavy letter in the mail, scrawled with his name in almost unrecognizable chicken scratch.  He thought for a second, maybe, but he hadn’t heard from him since he left California and returned home, even though he left an address and contact number and Liebgott had bit his lip bloody kissing him. He thought about him a lot, even tried to find him online but it appeared that Joe Liebgott really wasn’t one for social media, or any traceable presence at all really. He still listened to ‘Easy Company Troopers’ all the time, except instead of using it to quell his teenage angst and drown out the shouts of his parents it just made him smile.

Maybe indeed. Inside the envelope were a plain black memory stick and a postcard from Telegraph Avenue. David flipped over the huge technicolor peace sign and read the back of the postcard.

_‘Hey Webster,_

_How’s Harvard? Sorry I didn’t contact you, been busy._

_Put some music on the memory stick, sorry it’s not on vinyl, you fucking hipster.’_

David paused to huff out a laugh. A bit hypocritical of Joe Liebgott, the man who insisted that his band’s first EP was released on vinyl.

 _‘_ _It’s called ‘Band Of Brothers’. Just a new track from Easy. Yeah, we got back together. Hopefully we sound better than that crap from before._

_Feel special ‘cuz you’re one of 5 people who’ve fuckin’ heard it,_

_Lieb_

_P.S. We’re going on tour this summer to promo our upcoming album and we’ll probably play all up and down the coast, which should be cool if you’re into that kind of thing. Wanna come? Say yeah cuz I already told the guys I had a groupie and you wouldn’t want to let me down, would you?’_

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't been to Berkeley or Telegraph Avenue in about 2 years, so this is based off vague memories. Gorgeous, wonderful place though! 
> 
> Inspired by the Arctic Monkeys song 'Stop The World I Wanna Get Off With You'. Yes, I imagine Joe dressing like 2013 era Alex Turner. 
> 
> Also this is one of the first things I've ever written with several drafts and a beta-reader (i am usually supremely lazy/shoddy) so cheers bruv.


End file.
